


Have and Hold

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, free-form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Izaya knew about his work, of course. He just never quite made the connection.





	Have and Hold

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by varrix. when isn't it?  
> and thanks for looking it over, yu

Izaya’s heels thump against the trunk of the car. Technically, he shouldn’t be here. He’s just the middle man, connecting a supply to a demand. But the Supply _insisted._ They wanted a neutral third party. Like it would give them some form of protection. Like he’s a neutral party.

He arrived in the same vehicle his heels are hitting, and will probably leave in it too— pressed secure against Shiki’s side, an arm slung heavy and possessive across his shoulders, while the underlings do a poor job of pretending to admire the scenery sliding past the darkened windows.

Izaya doesn’t need to check his phone to know that the suppliers are running late, he can almost count the seconds in the twitch of Shiki’s check as his jaw works.

It’s a strike against them. Not a small one, either, Shiki detests tardiness. One of the first lessons he learned working under Shiki, and he learned it fast.

“Orihara,” Shiki says, “are you sure you told them the right time?”

He didn’t set the time. Or the place, for that matter. He remembers tapping out Shiki’s contact information, Shiki’s chin on his shoulder, pressing him into the mattress.

 _“No phones in bed,_ ” he’d said, and it rumbled through Izaya’s back into his ribcage.

“I didn’t set the time or place,” Izaya sings, thumping his heel extra hard against the trunk, because he’s damn good at his job, and he won’t be maligned because some chump with benzos couldn’t be arsed to be on time. But Shiki is usually better at remembering this sort of detail and he wonders what the point of it all is, until he notices one of the underlings looking particularly nervous in the corner.

Izaya thumps against the car again, hard, because he won’t be used in Shiki’s stupid disciplinary acts.

Shiki gives him a disappointed eye, like he knows what Izaya’s doing and he’s unimpressed and furthermore, _expected_ better from him.

Izaya thumps his heel again.

It’s twenty more jaw twitches and two more sighs and watch-checks before a dingy blue van limps into the parking garage.

Word is that Akabayashi doesn’t like the drug trade, refuses to have anything to do with it. But it doesn’t mean old Dougen is going to sit out on a lucrative trade just cause one of this underlings have _moral qualms._

But that means that someone else has to oversee it, and Shiki’s department seems to be everything that needs to be moved and facilitated, so here they are.

Three men in varying degrees of dressed up from threadbare suit that the most hard-pressed yakuza won’t be caught dead in to sweat pants sagging to show the yellowed band of boxers underneath, and Shiki, perfectly pressed out, eyes sharp and shoulders slumped with some of his subordinates that happened to be closest at the time. All told, they don’t look like much. The only thing that makes this look like anything out of the movies is the shiny black car that Izaya keeps banging his heels against in a staccato rhythm.

“You’re late,” Shiki says, deceptively mild, crushing his half-used cigarette under a heel. His voice is gravely and his tone dangerously low.

“Apologizes,” the man in the suit says in oily tones almost as greasy as his hair. “But I think you’ll find what we got more than makes up for it.”

It’s even more boring than Izaya expected, and he didn’t exactly have high hopes for entertainment from this. The men in the van don’t even flick eyes his way, the third party they _insisted_ on being here, and whose time is valued somewhere in the millions per hour.

He only knows it goes south when Shiki’s shoulders go tense, creeping towards his ears, and his voice goes dangerously, dangerously smooth.

“What do you mean, you got another delivery to make? To _who?”_

“To the Ira—” the one in sweatpants starts before an elbow is thrown quickly into his gut.

“We don’t rat on our customers,” suit says, proudly, like he’s done three rounds in prison to keep his customers safe. He hasn’t. This is his last resort, after his degree in chemistry didn’t get him the high-rolling job he wanted straight out of college. This is only their second customer, if you count the rabble that peddle on the streets of Ikebukuro as the first.

There shouldn’t _be_ another customer.

“Orihara,” Shiki snaps. “You said they were new on the scene.”

“I stand by that,” Izaya says, pulling out a phone. “But there’s been talk of a sting in the police channels.”

“And you didn’t think it was— Never mind. Never mind. Where are you meeting this next client?”

“Here, of course, just seemed more convenient—”

Shiki is still. Still like one of those big cats that Izaya saw in a nature documentary once when he was little, one of the late night programs that shows the gleaming white bone of the bird’s neck as it snapped, when the cat moved all at once.

“You sold us out,” Shiki says, quiet, so quiet.

There’s the distant sound of police sirens, but it’s Tokyo and there’s no way to know who it’s for, if it even related to them.

“No, no, I swear—”

It’s Shiki that takes the first swing, fist flying faster than Izaya thought possible. It connects with a meaty sort of crack against the man’s jaw.

His subordinates follow suit of course, a mass of suits descending on the rag tag group. They try and put up a fight, but it’s pathetic and small compared to the force of professional criminals with hardened lives and dirty techniques.

Then, there are three men in varying degrees of beaten, from scraped to comatose.

“Boss, what should we do with them?”

“Kill them, of course.”

And finally, _finally,_ they look to him, the not-neutral-neutral party, for hope. For something. Izaya doesn’t move as Shiki brings a man’s head down on the pavement with a sickening, wet _crunch_.

Izaya doesn't move when Shiki’s arm is slung around him in the car, free hand heavy on Izaya’s shoulder as his other cradles his phone.

“Yes, a clean up crew. Fast as you can. Actually, leave the bodies. We just don’t want a huge sign pointing to us, but let the police know what happens to moles.”

Izaya thinks of the cigarette butt that Shiki crushed under his heel and wonders.

Shiki smells like what he smokes, but it’s more of an undernote underneath the pungent reek of blood.

“How does Thai sound?”

“Hmm?”

“For dinner? Thai?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, sounds amazing.”

“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” Shiki says, climbing out of the car. It’s with a start that Izaya realizes they’re home. Or at least, at Shiki’s apartment. Which is not home, because he has his own apartment.

So there.

Shiki’s apartment is on the tippy-top floor, with a view that just peeks out around the other high-rise apartment buildings that speak of untouchable wealth and status.

Shiki goes and changes out of his Formal Yakuzing Suit to something less splattered with blood and possibly more comfortable, while Izaya curls on the couch, banging his heels against it like he did the car not long ago.

The Thai place they favor is just around the block, and they send the same delivery boy they always do, someone high-school age and haggard and always happy to see them and there within minutes because Shiki tips generously and Izaya can’t be assed to count the cash he shoves at the boy, so he probably tips outrageously.

At least the boy looks happy, before Izaya slams the door in his face.

Izaya digs in before he’s even entirely in his seat, habit taking over before the smell of cooked meat fully registers.

Meat.

Blood, and cracked bones and the squishy wet sound of brain hitting concrete.

He’s not so hungry anymore.

Shiki reaches out and swipes at his lip with his thumb. It’s tender, affectionate.

There’s something dark under Shiki’s nail. Shiki, who’s so fastidious about his nails and hygiene. There’s blood under his nails because Shiki killed a man less than an hour ago and he hasn’t noticed yet because he’s been busy.

Busy with what? Attending to Izaya, of course.

But that’s how life goes, isn’t it? Life is precious and fleeting and humans are at their very best when they’re acutely aware of it.

But the end of that road is death, the final resting.

“All right there, Izaya?” Shiki asks, and he frowns as he notices the darkness under his nails, pulling out a nail file from one of his pockets. He carries it always, like Izaya does his switchblade.

Izaya had a dream once that Shiki used it like he does his switchblade, holding it firm and steady at the throats of those that have done him wrong. In Izaya’s dream, though, Shiki does with his nail file what Izaya never does, and twists the metal deep into the fleshy part of the neck where veins pump and the windpipe flaps constantly. Atrial sprays are nothing like in the movies, of course. They’re not dramatic—they’re disgusting and thump in time with a failing heart, an arching fountain—

“ _Izaya,_ ” Shiki says, in the tone that says he’s been saying it for a long time.

“Hm?” Izaya says, suddenly remembering the food halfway to his mouth.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Shiki says, slowly and leisurely. His eyes dance with amusement and light curiosity, and it’s times like these that Izaya actually thinks that the color suits him. Others he thinks that warm brown would be better replaced with pale-ice-blue, sharp and cold as the rest of him. But humans don’t come conveniently color-labeled and schemed for easy classification.

He’s got a lit cigarette in one curled fist, pressed against his check as he hunches over the table. He doesn’t look like a murderer. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Nobody looks like an _anything._ Nobody is immediately laid bare on the surface. That’s what makes humans _interesting._

“Life, death, existential concerns,” Izaya says airily. “Perhaps too deep for a yakuza like yourself, ne?” But apparently not airily enough, because Shiki frowns, a there-and-gone expression that smoothes almost before it’s done expressing itself, and doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Must be quite the conundrum, to have you ignoring food.”

Shiki’s going from that clear amusement look to one of concern. It doesn’t come right out to be shown to the world, but rather lurks in the corners of his eyes and mouth, pulled just a little taunt.

Izaya reaches out and tangles his fingers in the chain around Shiki’s neck, reeling him in.

Shiki’s not about it, at first. His hands are awkward, and not on Izaya’s sides like they should be. But then he bears down on Izaya and his hands come to play as Izaya’s tongue becomes insistent and his fingers tug harder on Shiki’s chain.

Shiki’s hands are curious and slow as they skitter up under his shirt, like he’s asking permission. Like each and every time they do this, it’s brand new and something to be cherished, instead of something they’ve done often enough that it should, by all rights, be starting to feel stale.

But Shiki doesn’t seem to feel that way at all. His fingers are careful and gentle as they trace the contours of his ribs, sending skitters up his spine. Lips on his neck are soft, with only a hint of teeth.

Because Shiki is in control.

Sometimes, Izaya can drive him past that. Then his hands are rough, and his teeth break skin, and his eyes go dark and bottomless and it’s _wonderful._

But tonight’s not that night, no matter how much Izaya squirms and tugs on Shiki’s hair, he goes no faster, taking his sweet time stripping him, like it’s something he wants to savor.

“You’re so _slow,_ ” Izaya certainly doesn’t whine as he nips his way down his chest, and certainly doesn’t squirm.

“Is that right?” Shiki mutters against his skin, and it reverberates through his stomach and it _tickles,_ and Izaya has to bite his lip.

But then Shiki reaches his waist band, and apparently he’s taken Izaya’s words to heart, because he only takes the time to get pants out of the way before Izaya’s halfway down his throat.

Shiki’s good at it. Really good. Good enough that Izaya almost wants to know where he learned it over the deafening silence that’s Shiki’s sexual history.

Good enough that Shiki has to press hands down on Izaya’s hips to keep him steady, because god-forbid Shiki lose control. Good enough that it’s not long before Izaya’s knees are knocking either side of Shiki’s ribcage as he twists his fingers tighter into dark hair and he’s gasping for air, and Shiki looks smug. His lips are bright red and curled into a smirk and his hair is a mess, but it’s definitely something _smug._

Izaya will let him have this one, he supposes.

“Come to bed?” Shiki says, a hand held out to help Izaya off the couch.

“I suppose I could find it in me,” Izaya says, taking the hand. Shiki tugs him off the couch with seemingly no effort on his part.

“How gracious.”

And Izaya leaves his pants behind and lays on Shiki’s soft bed because he already knows how this will go.

Shiki’s in the mood for something soft and languid, something that feels like morning sex on a Saturday when they have nowhere to be.

And as he slides into Izaya from behind, curled around him on their sides like two spoons, it almost feels like it.

Izaya’s nerves spark sharply where Shiki’s hands touch him, and the ink that makes Shiki’s arms so dark doesn’t bleed off onto him and turn his own skin dark with it.

Shiki’s hands roaming his chest don’t have any dark crusts underneath them, and they’re soft as they brace on his hip when Shiki gets closer, and they’re even softer when he’s pulled to his chest afterwards.

Shiki’s heart thumps under his ear and Shiki’s fingers card through his hair. And perhaps the reason they don’t leave bloody fingerprints all over Izaya is because they’re always been covered in blood, and Izaya simply hasn’t noticed, and it’s far too late now to think he’ll ever be clean.

Or maybe it’s because the sins of humanity are the nature of humanity, and the duality is intrinsic.

Izaya twins his fingers in the hand that’s not busy petting him. He’ll think on it later, he’s busy at the moment.


End file.
